


Do you trust me?

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Beach Setting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, British Navy, Campfire chats, Captain John Watson, Caring John, Childhood insights, Comfort, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John, First Meeting, Fluff, Gunshots, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injured Sherlock, John Watson - Freeform, John and Sherlock watching the stars, John is a charming fellow, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Mycroft, Panic, Piratelock, Pirates, Romance, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock is a nervous little baby, Ship wrecked sherlock, Time and setting of pirates of the caribbean, beach, gunfire, palm trees, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1706 and Sherlock Holmes finds himself washed up on a beach after a shipwreck. Things aren't going exactly to plan but little does he know it, help is about to run right into him, perhaps in the magnificent form of Captain John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washed up

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the weirdest idea I've had yet so far. I don't really know where I'm going with this but if people like it I'll continue. I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock came into consciousness slowly, his mind temporarily blank, all he could taste was salt.

_Salt._

The sea lapped at his ankles, exposing his cold, bare feet temporarily to the world before covering them back up again in a fresh wave of water. His face was squashed sideways, with sand at his cheek, clogged under his fingernails and scratching at his eyes. There was a moment of temporary confusion and he tried to move, but that _hurt,_ so instead he peeled open a heavy eye.

He had a slightly blurry, sideways view of the world and yup. Sadly his surroundings did match up to the array of seashore type sounds he was now hearing.

This was not a dream. He was on a beach. Palm trees. White sand. Blue Mediterranean Sea. The whole shebang.

For some reason when he’d first awoken, for a second, just a second, it had felt like he was back in England, back at the family’s grand old manor house. The sunlight beaming onto him from the window, his thin white sheets laid lightly over his torso, eyes heavy from a good long sleep. Mycroft would probably be calling him, sending maid after maid up to his room to stir him for his duties. But he’d ignore them of course, send them away so sharply that they daren’t return, and in the end it wasn’t until gone noon when he considered rising from his slumber.

But of course, this was not the case. He hadn’t been back home in over a year, and that was very, so _very_ far from here now.

A cackling seagull from above reminded him that he had not yet moved, and he decided that he needed to, quickly, or there was a chance someone would come along and kill him soon, and if that didn’t happen he’d most likely die anyway. For right now he felt strangely warm and comfy. And he suddenly became startlingly aware that the tide was coming in, it’s level rising alarmingly quickly so that the waves were now crashing over his lower thighs, smothering him in a salty silk blanket.

The blanket of death, to be more precise.

He knew from the many books he had studied and one vaguely similar past experience that the reason he felt so warm right now was because his body had gone past feeling cold. He was now numb to the point of reversion, and it was actually more likely he was currently hanging on the shallow cliff edge of hypothermia. This was death trying to trick him, making the end all snug and cosy so that he’d give up, and that wasn’t happening _just_ yet.

He shook himself, violently, which did _not_ go down well. His entire body, but more prominently his left leg, stung with an insufferable amount of pain the second he tried to move. Breathing through it, he took another raspy breath and then tried again, but with strong purpose this time. It took an insane amount of effort, and as he pushed his nerves and muscles screamed at him to stop, but he persevered until he’d dragged himself upwards, away from the ever encroaching sea and up onto the softer, drier sands of the beach.

Once he was safely out of the water he stopped and keeled over, panting heavily to catch his breath and fight the urge to call out in pain. He clutched the sand with his fingers, eyes squeezed shut, it was a long moment before the ache subsided to a bearable level and he managed to steady his breathing. However, as he tried to open his eyes again it became apparent that he _still_ couldn’t see properly, which could become a problem, as he did need to inspect his leg. He wanted to rub his eyes, but his hands were covered in sand, so instead he reached down to the front of his damp, cold, and now notably torn white shirt and lifted it up to wipe his face. Before shaking his long, black, sea washed hair out of his eyes. Noting that it was already beginning to curl again, coil back to its ridiculous shape, the tips that hung in his eyesight crusted in sand.

It was now, a small inch further from death than he’d previously been, that he decided to take in his surroundings properly.

_The ship?_

The stretch of beach he was facing displayed nothing but sand, water, and trees, before it curved off to the right. So Sherlock turned his head and looked the other way, squinting so that he could see further into the distance. Here the beach was long and apparently endless, and he had to shield his eyes from the blaring sun if he wanted to see properly. But if he tried hard enough, far off in the distance, prehaps about a mile away, looked like the faint outline of the last thing he’d known. It seemed to be run aground, precariously leaning on its left side. It was too far away to tell if it was a wreckage, and it was also too far to tell if there was anyone moving near it, but either way, it was as good as done for. A ship that far aground would probably never move again.

A gunshot suddenly shattered the quiet that surrounded him. He jumped, basic survival instincts kicking in, and forgot all ideas of the ship or salvation as he tried to scramble to his feet, looking to the far treeline for some desperately needed cover. The gun fired again. Louder this time, _closer_ , followed by faint screams that were still out of sight. After a great deal of effort, Sherlock managed to stagger onto both his feet, shaking his head and trying to snap himself into action. But his legs failed him and he tumbled back down to the sand. He couldn't do it. The world was spinning and spiraling out of control. And the surge of pain in his leg was now so unbearable that he was feeling more than a little delirious.

The resounding boom of another gunshot rang through the air, but followed by something different this time. Suddenly a man appeared around the curve of shore. He was short, with ruffled sun-bleached blond hair and a muscular body.  Wearing the tattered remains of a white navy captain's uniform. Oh, and he was running. Sherlock blinked rapidly. Trying to take in everything he could. No...his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, he was right. In fact the man was _sprinting_ towards him, arms dashing at his sides, legs working frantically hard to propel himself forward.

 _That’s nice._ Sherlock thought to himself. _Just on a run. He looks friendly, and he’s not holding a gun. I must be imagin-_

“RUN!” The blond man screamed, still rushing towards him, his feet kicking up the sand in all directions. He dived to the ground every couple of meters, throwing himself from side to side to make himself a hard target. Sherlock would have laughed, because this man, whoever he was, looked absolutely mad. Except that it wasn't funny, because then the gun fired again, and this time the sound was close enough for Sherlock to see who fired it.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING GET UP?!” The blond haired man screamed at him again, red in the face.

He was close now, still sprinting along the beach towards him. Sherlock could start to make out the features of his face...his eyes, his lips... _they were nice_.

“I CAN'T!” Sherlock tried to shout back, but his voice had broken, it cracked as he spoke and the sound got lost under the howl of the wind and the roar of the sea. He tried to stand up again, get to his feet.

“RUN!” The man shouted again, clearly having not heard him. He was still heading in Sherlock's direction, running as fast as he could. He would be at his side soon.

The gun fired again, and the sheer shock of the sound caused Sherlock to fall back down to the sand. Almost immediately he sat back up and shielded his face from the sun so that he could look in the direction of the gunshots.

It was then, even in the utterly delirious state that he was in, that Sherlock felt it.

The fear of death.

Because _boy_ was it so much closer now. The black suit jacket stood out blazingly against the pale white sand. His hair was jet black, long and matted. He stumbled forward, almost zombie like, but faster, with the gun held out in front of him, swinging it around like a toy and waving it roughly between his two very _obvious_ targets.

Sherlock tore his eyes away, realising that the blond man was approaching him now, his face struck with pure panic.

“I'M INJURED. SAVE YOURSELF.” Sherlock cried, trying to shoo the man away from him with his arms. “LEAVE ME!”

But the man didn't, he kept coming until he skidded to a halt in front of Sherlock and, without a moment's hesitation, threaded his arms underneath Sherlock's armpits and tried to pull him upwards.

“I said leave me!” Sherlock hissed, trying to push the stranger off of him.

“I'm not leaving you.” The man replied coolly. His strong muscular arms working to pull Sherlock up off the sand.

“You’ll die! It's too late for me, go!” Sherlock whined, but he didn't have the energy, the strength to shout anymore, so instead it came out as no more than a croaky whisper. Helplessly, he felt himself being pulled roughly to his feet.

“Put your arm around my waist!” The man ordered, slinging one his arms around Sherlock's back so that he was gripping the taller man tightly on the shoulder.

“What?” Sherlock stuttered, utterly baffled by everything that he was witnessing, and not sure that he’d remain conscious much longer. The pain was almost enough to make him pass out on its own.

_Why was this man risking his life for him?_

“Do it!” The man shouted, pulling at Sherlock's hand until he was forced to obey, so Sherlock wrapped his arm tightly around the smaller man's waist until he was leaning on him, his head sagged sloppily against his shoulder.

They started to hobble quite pathetically towards the trees. But it wasn't going to be quick enough. Picking up Sherlock had given _him_ time to catch up. Roughly four hobbles in a bullet flew past Sherlock's ear and the deafening boom of another gunshot echoed the sound of impending death.

“Fuck.” The man holding him swore, but didn't collapse. It had missed. Missed them both.

Sherlock felt desperate, weak, his right hand dropped from the man's shoulder and fell against his side, landing on...his pistol holster!

Attached to his belt it had apparently survived the wrath of the sea, the pistol might even still be there. Stupidly he’d been too hazed by the pain and adrenaline to notice it before now and it probably wouldn't even work but-

“Wait!” Sherlock rasped.

“Now is not the time to be waiting!” The man replied sharply, pushing them onwards.

“My gun” Sherlock whined, “I think it's on my belt-”

“Your gun?-”

The man wasted no time, he reached round and fiddled with the holster briefly, before grabbing the pistol from Sherlock's belt and cocking it. He whipped his head round, aimed, and fired it swiftly behind them.

But there was no cry. No fall.

 _Miss_.

Another bullet flew past, close to Sherlock’s waist this time.

 _Miss_.

The blond man holding him fired back.

 _Miss_.

They were close to the trees now, if things carried on like this there was a chance they might actually make it.

But Sherlock could feel himself slipping. The consciousness draining out of him like water through a child's fingers. He clutched onto the man’s waist harder, his leg searing with red hot pain. He felt the man’s body tense, he was aiming. Technically it wasn't his turn to shoot but it looked like he wasn't going to be following the usual etiquette rules of one on one gun battle.

He fired the gun.

 _Hit_.

Sherlock will never know how directly because he turned just as he saw the man with the tattered black hair, sodden black jacket, and murderous face go crashing down to the sand.

His victor pulled him onwards, and they hobbled the rest of the way to the trees. Sherlock clung on for dear life, his breathing now so erratic that he expected the entire ordeal will have been in vain since he predicted he was going to die now anyway. Which was a shame really, this man seemed really nice.

They finally got to the edge of the trees and as soon as the shorter man so much as loosened his grip slightly, Sherlock fell to the ground, luckily in the shade. He groaned as his head hit the sand and rolled onto his back, panting heavily, doing nothing more than focusing very hard on _not_ dying.

His saviour fell to his knees almost immediately, and began pulling at Sherlock’s shoulders again, moving him so that he was propped up against the trunk of a large palm tree.

“Now,” He began.

Sherlock noted that his voice was smooth and calm, which after what they’d just experienced he thought was quite remarkable really.

“I want you to stay with me, please, you've been badly injured. Stay conscious.”

If Sherlock hadn't been on the brink of death he might have rolled his eyes. But he didn’t, instead he gave a shallow dip of his head in understanding.

“My name,” The man said carefully, fiddling with Sherlock's lower trousers so that he could begin addressing his wounded leg. “Is Captain John Watson, of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. Navy Captain, and a doctor. I'm going to help you.”

Sherlock managed to smile weakly. A doctor was a good person to have at his side in a situation like this. He slumped his head against the tree, let his hands drape helplessly at his sides and watched hazily as the stranger - _John_ \- started examining his leg.

John looked back up, concealing any concern from his face and replacing it with a light smile. “Can you speak?”

Sherlock nodded faintly.

“Ok, good,” John continued, his focus on Sherlock's face all but stolen once again by his task. “May I ask your name?”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock whispered quietly, biting his lip to stop himself making a rather embarrassing sound from the pain caused by John touching his leg.

“That's an usual name.” John said softly. “Ok, where does it hurt most? Is it just your leg?”

“I'm numb.” Sherlock breathed.

“Ok. You got a bit cold there in the sea last night, here-” In an instant he shrugged off his tattered uniformed jacket and laid it over Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock closed his eyes, now the adrenaline rush was over, he was really starting to feel the pain. His body began to shake. His lower lip started to tremble uncontrollably.

“Keep your eyes open, please Sherlock, can you do this for me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, his breathing was speeding back up again and John was starting to blur in and out of focus.

“Sorry I'm-” He slurred.

"No, don't apologise it's the shock, but please I need you to stay conscious.” John's voice was still gentle but there was something else behind it now, the softest form of panic.

“Alright.” Sherlock breathed, looking John straight in the eyes to prove that he was following his orders. He tried to pull his hand up to mop his brow. Still taking shaky after shaky breath, his chest rising and falling.

“No Sherlock, don't do that.” John reached out and stopped Sherlock's hand, wrapping his own palm around Sherlock’s wrist so that he could guide it back down to the sand.

“But I-” Sherlock slurred again.

“Don't worry, I've got it.” John said softly, beginning to tear the bottom of his shirt, so that he had some cloth to mop Sherlock's brow with. He rolled it into a tight ball and began padding at Sherlock's forehead, wiping away the sweat, the salt, the sand... _It felt nice._

Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut again, he couldn't help it, everything was spinning just that little bit _too_ much now. The world was blurring in and out of focus every 30 seconds or so, and darkness was starting to creep in on the corners of his vision.

He was slipping away, peacefully in fact, when suddenly he felt a tender palm cupping his cheek, tilting his chin upwards.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock did, and it took every ounce of willpower that he possibly had left.

“This all isn't as bad as it seems, ok? You're going to live, I promise you that. I'm going to look after you.”

Sherlock couldn’t possibly think of anything to say, so instead he remained silent, eyes flickering doubtfully over John's face.

“Do you trust me?” John asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed, his voice shaking as he spoke.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I felt my writing style was slightly different here, but hopefully it was good different. Please leave your thoughts in the comments, I love getting feedback.


	2. Disorientated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up for the second time. Panic and disorientation ensues, but not without a great deal of comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter just kinda tumbled out- a bit like the first one. I don't feel like I have much control over this story it's just falling from my brain and doing its own thing, but I'm not going to fight it because I think I like where it's going. Hopefully you will too. Enjoy!

There was a loud thud, and Sherlock jolted awake immediately, his brain whirling frantically as he tried to come to terms with where he was, why the air tasted like salt and why he wasn't in his cabin.

But, then he remembered.

Distorted memories came falling back to him in jarred pieces. The battle, the sand, the sea, the gunshots. _Nearly_ dying. The whole thing was a blur, and to be honest he was still rather hoping it’d all been some kind of bad dream. But...it wasn’t all horrible. The memories were shaded with something lighter, something that was now missing…

_John._

He wasn’t there.

“John!?” Sherlock croaked, shaking himself awake properly and sinking his hands down into the sand to try and push himself up into a sitting position. It was a struggle but eventually he managed to shuffle upwards so that his back was now flat against the trunk of the palm tree. As he sat it took a long moment for him to warily observe the scene that surrounded him, it appeared a coconut had fallen suddenly from the tree above, landing hard on the sand at his side and causing him wake so abruptly.

He lifted his shaking hands to his face and bawled them into fists so that he could rub his eyes, clearing out the muck, fighting the heavy pull of sleep and finally allowing him to see the world in focus.

“John?”

But there was no one there, no one came running to his call.

“JOHN?” Sherlock cried again, louder this time, his desperation rising with every passing second. He looked all around, eyes darting nervously between the trees, searching hysterically for the man with the golden tanned skin, sandy coloured hair and kind, dark blue eyes. The man who had so bravely fought their attacker, got them to safety, looked after him, _saved_ his life.

But there was nothing. Just trees one way and beach the other.

_Of course._

He’d been deserted. Abandoned. Left to die like an injured puppy. Clearly Captain John Watson was gone, and now Sherlock found himself feeling a fool for ever expecting otherwise. People _didn't_ like him. That was a fact. Why would John be any different?

The air around him was hot and humid, sticky. And he was definitely _not_ cold anymore. He shrugged off John’s tattered white jacket angrily and threw it away from him. Gritting his teeth as he felt his eyes begin to prick with tears. And as expected, despite his rapid blinking the tiniest teardrop still began to slide from the corner of his eye. It was all too much. He could hear Mycroft’s voice in his head, hard and sombre.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. To trust, is to be foolish._

The boy shook his head and wiped his face quickly with the back of his hand. If one thing was more annoying than Mycroft talking to him - ever. It was Mycroft talking to him _and_ being right.

He sniffed, trying to shake his brother’s pretentious tone from his head by focusing on something different. Moving. It was obvious that he wasn't better, that his leg was probably still unusable (although he noted John had done a pretty good job of bandaging it up), but he didn't want to stay here, with the heat and false hope suffocating him. Besides, the next logical step was to attempt to find fresh water.

He grasped at the back of the tree trunk with his hands, the sharp bark digging in and probably leaving scratches but he didn't care. He continued to struggle to his feet, panting heavily and using the tree as support until he was stood up and leaning against it. He decided he would head towards the beach, try and figure out the landscape of the Island, calculate where it was most likely potable water would be. But-

Maybe he could try one last time, just before he left.

“JOHN?” He shouted in no particular direction, the sound as loud as he could possibly muster.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just the chirping of birds and the ever thundering roar of the sea.

It hit him again. The desperation. It came rushing back like a blow to the head. How could this have happened? How was he suddenly so alone? He didn't want to be without John, the man who had promised to look after him. The man who had held his gaze in a way nobody ever had before.

He stumbled forward towards another tree, the pain causing him to wince violently as he moved.

“JOHN?” He screamed.

A swirl of black suddenly overtook his head, a punishment for shouting, that caused him to break away from the support of the tree. He fell forwards, his bare feet tumbling over and over each other on the sand until he was temporarily balanced in the middle of the clearing. He stumbled about, spinning himself around in a sharp circle. His movements were almost that of a drunk person, for with the combination of his injured leg, spinning head and blurred vision, he actually _felt_ drunk. Unable to think or walk straight and with a mind that was scattered all over the place, he tried again.

“John?”

But defeat punctured his words. No one was coming. It was over, it had to be.

And then he saw him.

“Sherlock?! What the-”

The smaller man suddenly appeared through a slight parting in the trees, carrying a large stack of sticks in the bridge of his elbow, and what looked like a tankard of liquid in his other hand.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, tumbling towards him. An indescribable relief flooding through his veins, filling his lungs, allowing him to breathe again. It was intoxicating.

But the older man did not have a smile on his face, he looked dumbstruck, his features charred instead with panic. He looked startled, confused. In an instant he dropped his arm and the sticks tumbled from his grasp and scattered to the floor. He tore his eyes away from Sherlock briefly to place the tankard down on a rock before quickly darting over to Sherlock’s side.

“John!” Sherlock breathed again, his words tumbling from his mouth uncontrollably. “You’re here! I thought, I thought-” He wobbled as he spoke, temporarily losing balance, his physical stability wavering as much as the words that fell from his lips.

“Jesus Sherlock!” John stepped forward quickly, grabbing the taller man's shoulders and steadying him. He stared questionably into the younger man’s wide blue eyes.

“What on earth are you doing wandering around?! You shouldn't be stood up, your leg, it's not- you need to sit down… here-” John pulled softly on Sherlock's shoulders and wrapped his arm around the taller man’s back to support him, before gently beginning to pull him towards the direction of the tree.

Sherlock didn't last a moment. The world was fuzzy, off balance, and he wasn't really sure what was happening. All he knew was that John was here, with him again. He wasn't alone.

High on happiness and relief he collapsed into the older man’s arms, falling into his shoulder, leaning on him like he had done before. “I thought you had left me…I thought you were gone.” He slurred, his head still swirling as they slowly moved back to the support of the largest palm tree.

“No- god. Sherlock. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. Listen to me.” John replied, stilling their movements suddenly and capturing Sherlock’s gaze with his own. “I'm not going to leave you, I made you a promise didn't I?” The Captain spoke slowly, keeping his voice smooth and level, and Sherlock exhaled slightly as he felt the comforting tone of the older man’s voice wash over him.

_It was so relaxing...so…_

John was still gazing intently into his eyes, expecting an answer and Sherlock realised he still hadn’t replied. Words were failing him…again, which was exceptionally rare and quite concerning, but Sherlock dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arrived and simply nodded faintly in reply.

John smiled, a warm smile, a gentle smile, one that said so much and yet so little all at the same time. He pushed lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders once more and began to walk him back towards the tree, his strong muscles working to take nearly all of Sherlock’s weight.

But only _nearly_ , not quite all of it.

After a couple or steps Sherlock lost balance unexpectedly, stumbling on his ankle and twisting it beneath him, causing a sharp amount of pain to shoot through his nerve endings and flare up from his leg. It was nasty, unexpected, and before Sherlock could stop it a small yelp of pain escaped and came falling from his mouth.

“Woah steady!” John gasped, acting quickly in retaliation. He dropped his hands down to Sherlock's hips and gripped hard, stopping him from falling over.

But Sherlock barely noticed, he was panting heavily, his fingernails digging into John’s shoulders as he clung on. “What...what is wrong with me.” He stuttered, frustrated at his body for failing him like this and embarrassing him once again in front of his saviour.

John waited until he was sure Sherlock was not going to fall over before moving back round so that Sherlock was at his side, the taller man’s slim waist being supported by John’s strong arm. His voice came low and soft in Sherlock’s ear. “You've got concussion. You must’ve hit your head at some point, during the battle or…that's why it’s all over the place. But don’t worry it’ll pass, you just need to rest.”

Sherlock nodded quickly, wanting to move forward again and focus John’s attention on something else so that he could leave this embarrassing moment behind forever. Having not really registering any of the things that John had just said, he dismissed the ridiculous comment about concussion and shook his hair out of his eyes, moving to step forward with his non-damaged leg.

“No…” John chuckled quietly as he tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist and stopped him from moving any further. “I don’t think you should try and walk. It isn’t working- look come here.”  

John paused briefly, and before Sherlock even had time to grasp what was happening, the older man had reached round and hooked one of his tanned muscular arms underneath Sherlock's thighs, while his other took a stronger hold around Sherlock's back. He waited until he was sure he had a good enough grip, before taking a deep breath and lifting Sherlock up off of the sand completely.

As John held the younger man firmly in his arms and began to walk the rest of the way to the tree, Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to protest. To say that although he was flattered by John’s kind actions…he didn’t quite think them necessary…and…and… he could fend for himself, in fact. And of course he didn’t need John to-

But the words didn’t come. His mouth fell open and then back closed again. Exhaustion was draining him far too much to put up any real resistance. So he didn’t. Instead he gave up and sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut and his body go limp.

He couldn't remember the last time he’d been carried like this, cradled softly in someone's arms. He felt like a child again. 8 years old. Connected to the vague memories of when father wasn't too busy or too drunk, and had actually come and carried Sherlock’s sleeping form out from the cold damp shed outside and up to bed. Mycroft would’ve always tried himself of course, but he wasn’t strong enough yet. So it was only if the older brother’s desperate pleas were successful. That the oldest Holmes man would tear himself away from his business and amble outside, his breath showing up pale before his eyes in the stark white light of the moon that shone brightly onto the stately grounds. He’d open the shed door with a click and sigh quietly to himself, shaking his head lightly when his eyes fell on the body of his youngest son, sprawled out on the floor or laid awkwardly over a stool. Fast asleep, passed out from exhaustion once again in the middle of one of his ridiculous experiments.

As John continued to walk, saying nothing, Sherlock allowed himself the rare pleasure of relishing in this unusually comforting childhood memory. And as he looked back on it he realised that he could remember so much of it in great detail. How, occasionally he’d awake when he felt himself being scooped up into his father’s stringent arms. How he’d make sure he remained utterly motionless. Still. Pretending to be fast asleep as his father padded up the stairs with him held lightly in his arms, some of the young boy’s unruly black curls pressed flat against the front of his father’s chest. Just how they were now against John’s.

Sherlock remembered peeling an eye open, and although his brother was almost completely concealed by the dim light of the hallway, he could still make out the shape of Mycroft stood anxiously at his bedroom door, chewing the sleeve of his long pyjamas, watching Sherlock being carried up the stairs to make sure he got into bed okay. It was touching really…

How things change.

“There you are.” John said airily as they reached the tree and he lowered Sherlock down gently, placing his body down carefully on the sand.

“Thanks” Sherlock managed to stammer, his head falling back against the wood. He could feel the pull of tiredness taking over him already, dragging him back under.

“Are you thirsty?” John asked, sitting back on his heels and studying Sherlock's exhausted expression.

“Yes.” Sherlock croaked. Because, as he tried to speak, he realised he was so _very_ dehydrated. He hadn't even noticed until now. But away from the shady safety of the tree, the sun had been beating down onto his neck for the last ten minutes, and his mouth was now dry as sandpaper as a result.

“Good.” John leapt up, dashing over to the rock a couple of meters away where he’d placed the tankard down minutes before. He picked it up with slightly more care and brought it over, helping Sherlock lift his hands so that he could begin to take a drink as John continued to speak.

“I found the tankard washed up on the beach, it must have come from one of the ships. So I-” He smiled as he watched Sherlock hold the metal rim of the cup to his lips and take several long gulps, his eyes closing as the water slid over his dry lips and into his mouth. “I picked it up and walked inland until I came across a stream, it's quite far away actually, and I didn’t want leave you but-”

Sherlock finished drinking, a weak smile forming on his lips.

“I knew you’d need water.” John finished, moving down off of his heels so that he was sat back on the sand, arms resting casually on his bent knees.

Sherlock’s social skills had never been great but for once it suddenly dawned on him that perhaps he was being very rude. “Sorry!” He exclaimed. “I...err drunk a lot- do you want some?” He held the cup back up to John, chewing his lip nervously. But the older man simply laughed, shooing Sherlock’s hand away with his own.

“I _did_ need some but don’t worry I had several cups full at the stream, that’s all for you.”

Sherlock sighed in relief, and held the cup back up to his mouth gratefully. He was glad John clearly wasn’t an awkward speaker, and that his constant nattering was giving him a chance to just drink and catch up, try and steady his still spinning head.

“But there’s no food I’m afraid.” John continued. “I don’t really know how we’re going to…” He trailed off, his face clouding with concern briefly before dismissed the thought and continued. “Anyway, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up, I was getting firewood and... “ He narrowed his eyebrows briefly.  “...water- obviously. I wasn’t expecting you to wake up so quickly.”

Sherlock smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I’m a light sleeper.” He murmured, his words still slurring a bit.

John laughed in return. “Yes I can tell!” He chuckled, looking away and swirling the sand around in repetitive motions through his fingertips at his side.

There were a sudden silence after that, a pause. Where neither man really knew what to say. There was still so, _so_ much to be said, and Sherlock knew that he should probably explain himself _before_ John had to ask. He could already see the questions forming underneath the captain's fidgety movements, the way he glanced at Sherlock nervously before flicking his eyes away. The way his eyes would land on Sherlock’s back, sizing him up, trying to figure him out when he thought the younger man wouldn't notice.

"John...I-”

"No Sherlock.” John said softly, seeming to sense what was about to happen. “We can talk later, you're clearly exhausted, and perhaps not in your right mind just yet. I'll let you rest, it's what you need.”

Sherlock bit his lip. John was right, his head was still churning and he could barely string a sentence together properly. The explanation would have to wait. He dipped his head in understanding and began to let his eyes fall closed, caving into the desperate need of sleep.

John smiled tenderly, his soft gaze falling on Sherlock for a final moment before he pushed up from the sand and began to move away from the younger man’s side.

“Wait! John…” Sherlock gasped, his eyes snapping open and an unpleasant tightness instantly beginning to squeeze his chest.

John turned back quickly.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock stuttered, unable to hide the instant panic that flooded his words.

The corner of the older man’s lips turned up, brightening into a smile. He held his hands up in an act of jokey retreat. “I was just going to pick up the wood I got earlier and start building a fire for later...is that okay?”

Sherlock’s smile suddenly turned shy, and he found himself hiding behind the black curls that hung over his forehead. “I suppose.”

John let his hands fall and grinned again, before dropping Sherlock’s gaze and starting to turn.

“But John!”

The Captain turned back, the grin was still there, but behind it stood the ever so slight beginnings of exasperation. "Yes?" 

“When I’m asleep...don't leave.” Sherlock breathed quietly.

And it vanished then, John’s resolve faded entirely and an ineffable warmth overtook his face. His eyes seemed to melt tenderly, the corners of his face crinkling with his smile. “I'm not going to leave. I'm staying right here- and I'll still be here when you wake up. I promise.”

There was no use denying it. Sherlock died a little inside then. He'd never had anyone, _anyone_ ever stay. Everyone he’d ever loved or been remotely close to had abandoned him at some point. Of _course_ he didn’t want to fall victim to trusting this stranger. It went against everything he stood for. Everything he knew.

But…

Although he was sure he’d never surrender, not entirely. He _was_ certain about this moment. That look in John’s eyes, the way he had whispered softly into Sherlock’s ear, the way he held his gaze for just a moment too long. It said it all. It was obvious John meant what he was saying, that he would be true to his word. And that right now, he could be trusted. Sherlock had never been so sure about anything in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE that the backstory will all be explained in the next chapter. It was meant to be explained in this one but then all of that...just sort of...happened and it was getting too long so I've changed my mind and will put it in the next one. Hopefully I'll be able to update soon because I've already written some of the next chapter. If you want to get updates on my writing or just contact me (which I would love very much) then come join the party on either my [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/221bsherlockfandom_/) or my [Tumblr](http://but-it-was-always-supposed-to-be.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Feedback is always welcome.


	3. Fear is wisdom in the face of danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John exchange backstories and all is revealed. But that's not quite all that happens...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have been working so hard on this and I feel kinda proud of the ending so I really hope you guys enjoy it!  
> Please note this chapter contains a lot more description than the previous ones, hopefully in a good way. As someone pointed out to me I hadn't yet described the characters and the setting in enough detail- which is needed with an adventurous fic like this! So yeah, detailed description is not really my strong point, so I hope it's not boring. It's also quite long, oops! Anyway, enjoy!

When Sherlock first awoke, he was pleasantly surprised to feel a fresh wave of relief wash over him, as the first thing his eyes came into focus on was Captain John Watson. Sat on an upturned log. A newly built, but unlit fire arranged in front him.

As Sherlock blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the sharp glare of the sunlight that struck his face, he saw that John wasn't watching him, and hadn’t noticed he was awake yet. Instead, he was doing something, the older man’s blue eyes were focused on scraping at the insides of a coconut with a penknife.

As he sat there, slouched against the palm tree, Sherlock couldn’t help but observe in great detail the aspects that made the man before him so very handsome. He wanted to figure it out.

_Why was he so attractive?_

Thus far, Sherlock’s life had been a mix of dull figures and uninterested parties. He’d never found anyone attractive. He’d felt sexual attraction to a few people, a pent up desire that he’d struggled to tame. But that was only in his teenage years, gone now. Buried forever. At least that’s what he had thought...until he gazed upon the god-like form of a man in front of him.

Maybe, it was the way the sunlight fell down onto the Captain's golden tanned skin, making the tiny beads of sweat on his shoulders and the back of his neck glisten like diamonds in the bright sunlight. Or, maybe it was the way the shadows from the trees above them crossed his face, moving with the wind and splattering faint patches of shade that so perfectly contrasted the gold of John's beautifully muscular body. As he sat, perched on the upturned log, the light seemed to dance softly on his clothes. The gentle breeze ruffling his white shirt against his skin. Unsurprisingly considering their situation, John wasn’t as smart as Sherlock predicted he’d normally be, instead he looked rather dishevelled. The sleeves of his once fitted shirt pushed up loosely around his elbows, the faded white fabric only half tucked into the navy blue breeches at his waist. Unlike Sherlock, he had shoes on, sturdy brown boots that came up to his ankles and tied tightly at the front. Sherlock imagined they were once frightfully polished, but now it was clear they had seen better days, the edges slightly frayed, the colour fading near the top.

But none of that mattered, what was most enticing was his face. His features were handsome, but his eyes were the most captivating thing of all. Sherlock didn’t have the best view -since John was looking down, focused on his task. But he could still see the way the light caught on the Captain’s blue irises, illuminating them quite dramatically against the dark of his pupils. His pale pink lips were slightly pursed, and his _hair..._ well. That might’ve been Sherlock’s favourite thing. It was slightly ruffled, windswept. The rich straw-coloured strands swept across to the side. Radiating the glorious light of the sun.

He was perfect.

Sherlock smiled, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. He’d only been awake for a couple of minutes but already he could tell that following John’s advice and getting a good rest had improved his condition dramatically. This time, nothing was spinning, nothing was blurring, and apart from the underlying ache in the back of his head, he felt... surprisingly okay.

“Awake at last are we?” John smirked, quirking an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction.

“Mmmph” Sherlock grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“Oh.” As he moved he suddenly became aware of John's faded white army jacket that was laid over his chest, covering him up to his chin. He reached out and moved the now sweaty fabric away from his neck.

“Sorry,” John said quickly, looking slightly worried. “I just put it on you in case you got cold, the temperature dropped dramatically last night.” He started to move, to get up and remove it, his face crossed with the slightest blush but Sherlock stopped him before he had time to come over, reassuring him with a weak light-handed gesture.

“No, don't worry. It's fine, thank you.” He replied carefully, his voice still a little croaky. He pushed the jacket down so that it crumpled and sat comfortably in his lap. “But what about you? Weren't you cold?”

John looked relieved and sat back down, returning to his previous position. He leant his elbows on his thighs as he focused back on his task. “No.” He said, looking at his hands and concentrated carefully on the knife as it cut through soft, white insides of the coconut. “I was fine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not convinced. He didn't want John to be sacrificing his own health for him. “Sure?”

John raised his eyebrows.

"Hang on! What did you just say?” Sherlock suddenly spluttered, his eyes darting back and forth as his mind backtracked. “Last night?! How long have I been asleep?”

John laughed loudly and sat back on the log, casually running his fingers through his hair. “Since about this time yesterday, you slept all through the night. I changed the bandages on your leg twice.” He replied, tilting his head up and offering Sherlock an easy smile.  

“Oh...right.” The younger man shifted around a bit, testing the water by lifting his leg ever so slightly. “It doesn't hurt that much anymore.” He said in surprise.

John smiled warmly before his expression turned slightly more serious. “You're lucky, I think it's just a severe sprain...I mean it could be broken, but not badly at least. It will heal. And the gash on your leg is patching up nicely, the salt from the sea helped. It will get better in time.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock murmured quietly, unsure of what exactly to say.

A silence fell over them, but Sherlock didn’t mind, suddenly finding himself quite captivated by his surroundings. Now that he wasn't distracted, delusional, or _dying_. He wanted to actually take a moment to study the area. Drink it in and get to grips with it. He wanted to feel the way that the breeze settled lightly on his cheek. Recognise the intensity of the heat that was beating down onto his back.

He looked right through the apparently endless trees and then left out to the shore. It appeared they had made camp in a quaint little clearing. They hadn't been able to get far before Sherlock had collapsed, so they were on the edge. The trees that surrounded them were currently palm trees, but further on inland the vegetation became denser, and several variations of tree and bush species began to make up the forest. The sand underneath their feet was soft and white, falling through Sherlock’s fingers when he touched it. It was kind of...beautiful. As a place to settle and recover, he had to applaud their choice of location. So far this was perfectly adequate.

“You seem a bit more with it today.” John stated, breaking the silence and stealing Sherlock's attention. “Do you remember much?”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned at John's humorous tone. “Of course I remember everything. Concussion doesn't lead to memory loss.”

“It does actually, just not in all cases. “John corrected him. “I'm a doctor remember.” He added softly.

Normally Sherlock would have scowled, his cheeks flushing scarlet as he turned his head away from the embarrassment of his error. He had a naturally defensive nature- Mycroft’s influence probably, but with John it was different. There was something buried down deep in the inflection of his voice, something that told Sherlock that he wasn't trying to be sarcastic or hostile like people normally were. The Captain was just speaking lightly, always with an easy smile and a relaxed manner. For once this wasn't some joke... John was just being friendly.

“Oh.” Sherlock said gently, trying desperately to stop himself from blushing. “My mistake…”

John only smiled softly, and another pause strung itself between them. As it drew out Sherlock suddenly found himself feeling quite self-conscious. He was smart, he’d always been smart, his old schoolmaster had once called him a _genius_. But now, he looked like an absolute idiot in front of the one person he’d really rather not. Insecurity curdled in his insides. He tried to think of something, _anything_ to say that would move them away from this topic of conversation and stop John from dwelling on Sherlock’s embarrassing lack of medical knowledge.

“I...I- err…”

John glanced back up at him expectantly.

“How old are you?” Sherlock suddenly blurted out, his heart pounding in his chest and his eyes fluttering as he panicked.

John laughed again and his eyes danced for a moment. He appeared not to notice Sherlock’s sudden state of panic. “Well, that question was out of the blue.” He chuckled softly, sweeping some his light hair across his forehead. “I'm 27.”  

“That's a bit young to be a ship Captain isn't it?” Sherlock responded innocently, wiping his eyes to try and conceal some of his flushed face.

“I suppose it is…” John said slowly, as if the matter had never even crossed his mind before. “Well, the other chap got shot and I was doing so well that they decided to promote me, it’s just how it is I guess. What about you?”

Sherlock looked away nervously. “I'm 22.”

“Really? John asked. “You look....”

“...younger?” Sherlock interrupted hesitantly.

“I don't know really...” John frowned, trying to think of the right words. “...a little bit.”

Sherlock blushed, he was always being mistaken for someone younger, most people guessed he was about 19. He didn't know why, maybe it was his boyish long black curls, or perhaps his light blue eyes that glistened with youth and hadn't yet lost their shine. Or, more likely it was a combination of these things. Topped off with the fact that he had daintily smooth pale skin. He wasn't rough and ready like other men. His cheeks had always been soft, delicate, he didn't need to shave much.

“So anyway.” John began boldly. “What's your story? Are you going to tell me?” He looked away, still focused on scraping his knife along the base of the coconut shell, his blond fringe shading the sun from his eyes.

Sherlock’s words faltered. “...err…”

“Or am I going to have to force it out of you. **”** John added, a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat spread out on his face.

It was a joke, obviously it was, but something inside Sherlock still clenched, still flinched and his heart skipped a small beat. He blinked quickly, trying to _forget_.

“My story?” He repeated, glancing at his companion in confusion.

“Yeah.” John chuckled, flicking his eyes up to meet Sherlock's quickly before concentrating back on his hands. “You're clearly English- like me. So, _how_ does a young British man end up shipwrecked on a Caribbean Island.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John looked up to him again, continuing before the younger man even had a chance to say anything.

“See, that's what I've been trying to figure out. I'm the Captain of The Atlantis Royal British navy ship, so I know for a fact that you didn't come aboard that- I know all my crew. Yet, I've never seen your face before and…” John scoffed, his eyes dancing for a moment before he swallowed and remembered himself. “ _Clearly_ you're not a pirate so... where on earth did you come from?”

“Well…” Sherlock began, his usual confidence regaining itself a little as he dipped his head to conceal the edge of his grin. He smiled mischievously, purposely dropping his voice down a couple of octaves. He took a breath. “Technically, I _am_ a pirate…”

John looked up sharply, clearly more than a little startled. Shock began to settle over his face like an electric shock. He swallowed audibly, his chest starting to heave as he took a few sharp intakes of breath. His eyes scanned over Sherlock’s face, his body, as if he’d never seen it before. He looked angry, confused, and behind the wide eyes that flickered over Sherlock’s own was the quiet shadow of hurt. He clenched his fingers around the sweaty handle of his penknife. Gripping it that little bit harder.   

“No...you’re what?” He said gruffly, tilting his head strongly to the side and setting his jaw hard.

Sherlock laughed awkwardly, trying not to grow nervous at John’s reaction. He needed to remain confident and try and play it off. There was no way he could curl up into his shell now.

He threw John a shaky grin. “Oh relax.” He laughed, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”   

“Isn’t it?” John hissed, his facial expression still hard and his movements frozen.

“I-” Sherlock began.  

“So…you were aboard the Great Poseidon? Then? Were you?” John interrupted.

“Yes.” Sherlock stammered.

“But you don't look...I mean you don't _seem_ , like one of them. Like a pirate.” John whispered, dropping his head into his hands. “Jesus _Christ_ I’ve just helped a pirate.”

Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore, he felt dizzy with panic, overwhelmed at how the conversation could have gone so wrong so quickly. He couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from his mouth. “No John! Listen please, stop panicking. It's not what you think I can explain! It was just being literal about it...exact, I...-”

“Literal?” John breathed. “You mean…”

“Yes.” Sherlock rushed out. “Yes, yes it’s not what it seems.”

John dropped a heavy breath, he shook his head lightly tried to shake some of the tension from his shoulders. “Sorry...sorry, I’m being a dick...god sorry…” He pulled on a tight smile. “Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock had just parted his lips to speak when a fresh gust of cool breeze flew up from the direction of the sea and hit his face, whipping his hair out from over his eyes and revealing the slight flush on his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to stop his lower lip from trembling. “Back in England, I- I worked in London solving cases...crimes if you like.”

“Really? Oh that’s…”

“-Interesting.” Sherlock interrupted quickly, his voice shy and hesitant. “I think so anyway. It’s the only thing that will occupy my mind, boredom is a _dangerous_ complication for me.”

John blinked, his eyebrows furrowing as face took on a rather baffled expression. “Wait, wait slow down I'm confused, start from the beginning.” He prompted gently.

Sherlock took another shaky breath. “Ok...I was brought up in the country, on a grand estate in Hampshire. My parents are, shall we say...” He swallowed, flicking his eyes down to conceal the shimmer of guilt in his eye. “...well off. But for reasons I shan’t go into I left home at 17 and moved to London, where the surroundings were... _much_ more stimulating. I lived by the docks, skimping off what I could, when someone tipped me off about a crew of very dubious pirates that were about to make port. Naturally I investigated, and found that they were smuggling valuable goods in and out of Britain. No one could stop them, so I-I went on their tail. I _nearly_ had them...one night I crept onto the ship and snuck up to the Captain's cabin. There was a unique pearl bracelet in _his_ possession that was wanted by the King you see, and if I could get it then I could prove that it was that him and his crew responsible for the theft...and various other acts of treason.”

“Wow.” John breathed, his eyes glistening as he sat back and listened, hanging on Sherlock’s every word.

At John’s reaction Sherlock’s confidence began to grow, and he realised that John had dropped his grip on the knife and was listening intently, genuinely interested in Sherlock’s story. “I was there.” Sherlock continued eagerly. “Undetected. The evidence I needed was centimetres from my fingertips...but th-they caught me and…” He trailed off, wincing as his mind suddenly fell victim to everything that he’d tried so very hard to repress, to delete forever. But he couldn't. The memories were stained black. Permanent and inked through with a venomous poison. Despite Sherlock’s best efforts they always seemed to leak out from the chest that Sherlock had so desperately slammed closed. It only took a second. He would blink and it would be _his_ face above him. _His_ bloodshot eyes burning into Sherlock’s terrified blue irises. Snaking his way down into the very pit of Sherlock’s heart, acting like he was just another china toy to break.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Sherlock…? Sherlock are you alright?” John asked, his voice suddenly filled with worry.

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed, shaking his head and trying to shake the thoughts away. “Yes...it’s just.” He paused. “That’s when they captured me. That’s where I’ve been for the last six months...trapped on that ship...with _him._ ”

“Him?”

“The Captain.” Sherlock replied slowly, his voice starting to tremble. “His name is…Moriarty...James...Moriarty...that’s his real name anyway, to most he is known as...’The Magpie’.”

John scoffed, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smirk. “Really? I mean seriously? That’s not exactly…”

“You haven’t met him!” Sherlock snapped, his voice suddenly dark and filled with fear. “It’s not...he seeks the most desirable possessions known to man...treasure... silver, _anything_ that takes his fancy, he gets it. He wanted me so, he took me. I never thought I’d set foot on solid land again...it was _certainly_ not his intention to let me do so.”

“Oh god…” John shook his head, his eyes went soft and small dimples formed on his cheeks as he bit down on his bottom lip. “Sorry...but why? What did he want with you?”

Sherlock shut his eyes and dropped his head back against the tree. He spoke quickly, rushing everything out and praying that John wouldn’t ask for the details. He couldn’t bear John knowing the full extent of it, the mere thought was horrifying. He didn't need pity. He chose his next words carefully.

“Entertaining the crew... _entertaining_ him…” He whispered quietly. “I can deduce facts about people and figure them out- it’s what makes me a good detective. But, h-he forced me to reveal any traitors to him. Used me as a weapon against his enemies. I was an asset. I’ve been forced into all sorts of unimaginable scenarios it’s…”

“...it’s?” John prompted, his jaw had dropped ever so slightly.

Sherlock had to stop himself from saying any more. _That_ feeling was beginning to squeeze his chest again. He was starting to feel lightheaded, just thinking about it, _remembering_. It was-

He was shaking.

“Sorry I’m- I’m finding it difficult to talk about.” He stuttered, mumbling into his chest.  

“No, no, it’s alright, it’s fine. I get it.” John replied softly.

Sherlock seriously doubted that.

“And then our ships smashed each other to pieces with canon fire, washed up on this Island and...well, here we are.” John finished off quietly.

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed. “I got blown off the ship in the middle of the battle. I tried to swim for a bit but...I was never good at swimming, and with the storm-.”

“Did... _he_ survive?” John asked quickly.

Sherlock's voice went tight. “I expect so. He’s smart. He will have escaped somehow, I'm sure of it.”

“Just to clarify, that wasn't him then was it? The man trying to shoot us on the beach?”

“No.” Sherlock said solemnly. “I thought so at first, it looked like him. But when I saw his face I realised it wasn't, it was Moran, Sebastian Moran. He’s his quartermaster. He is equally as dangerous if I'm honest.”

“Shit.” John swore, hitting his knee in frustration.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Well I went back there to go and check the body the first time you were asleep, but he was gone. There was no trace of him. Can't have been such a direct hit after all.”

A large lump appeared in Sherlock’s throat. “They're still out there. A lot of them will be. If we’ve managed to survive this far then others will have too.”

“I know.” John replied quietly.

“We’re not safe.” Sherlock whispered.

“No.” John muttered grievously. “We’re definitely not.”

 

* * *

 

They sat and talked for hours, swapping life stories and experiences, and as the time passed, Sherlock’s shyness began to fade. He started to feel better, _properly_ better. John changed the bandages on his leg and fetched him more water. He cut up a couple more coconuts and forced Sherlock to eat them. Although they both knew they couldn’t survive on that for long. Hanging in between them was still the unspoken knowledge that they would have to leave to find food soon, but neither of them brought it up. After Sherlock’s troubling explanation there seemed to be a mutual agreement to keep the conversation light, living in the moment, trying to steer well clear of the consequences.

The sun slowly lowered and then disappeared as they were talking, the apricot glow of the sunset bouncing off Sherlock’s cheekbones until it fell from the sky and darkness surrounded them completely. It was only then that John said it was safe enough to light a fire. Sherlock had urged him to do it earlier but John had refused, reminding Sherlock that people would see the smoke in the daytime and it was vital that they remained undetected.

Sherlock marvelled when John set to work. He actually knew the right materials to use and the best shape in which to build the fire, and he even knew the right rocks to collect and the correct way to scratch them together to make a spark. It was incredible.

It took a while but soon they had smoke, and then orange flames, and then eventually warm glowing embers.

 

* * *

 

They lay apart. The remnants of the fire in between them. A small amount of embers were still alight, keeping them warm and dimly illuminating their little camp with a soft crimson glow. The stars were visible through a pear shaped gap in the trees above them, standing out like little silver diamonds on an endless blanket of black sky. The night was gentle and their talking had slowly died out. Now, all was silent apart from the mellow lapping of the sea and the occasional sound of a bird.

It was perhaps the closest to being peaceful Sherlock had ever come.

“John?” He whispered quietly.

“Yes Sherlock?”

Sherlock took a breath. “Why are you helping me?”

“Well I…” John trailed off, shifting position so that he was lying back on his elbows. Staring up at the stars. “I made a promise, and I always stick to my promises.” He replied smoothly.

“That’s not a very direct answer.” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to the right and trying to make out John’s face in the semi-darkness.

John sighed. “Well…maybe I’m just really, really nice, like a saint or something.” He joked, starting to giggle.

Sherlock snorted in amusement, blowing some air out of his nose. It was a moment before they both settled and Sherlock’s voice went serious again. “No but really, why? You could have just left me on the beach, left me today while I was asleep. You risked your life for me.”

John said nothing immediately, and Sherlock wondered if perhaps he had said one thing too many, pushed too hard for the answer. But then the older man sighed, rolling over onto his side so that he was facing Sherlock. The fire still in-between them, the orange glow of the embers reflecting in his dark pupils. The dim orange light flickering over his face. He leant his cheek on his palm.

“I don’t know…” He breathed quietly. “It just feels right doesn’t it? This…us….being together. Like it was years in the planning or something. When I saw you, I just knew I had to save you. I could feel it, I still feel it now.”

Sherlock could feel his insides melting at John’s words. He was flying. Warmth seemed to spread out from the gentle smile on his face and take over his body. Touching his heart, lifting it up and fixing it, beginning to heal it in a way no one had ever done before. The feeling was overwhelming, intoxicating, but in a marvellous way, as if nothing else in the world really mattered. As if nothing else in Sherlock’s previously meaningless existence meant _anything_ up until now, until this one special moment.

“I feel it too.” He whispered. “And I-“

The deafening boom of a gunshot interrupted Sherlock mid-sentence. Blowing the moment to pieces. The sound of it was so loud it made them both jolt violently. Sherlock almost cried out.

Everything seemed to stop. The world turned to slow motion. In a flash Sherlock could feel everything falling down around him, deteriorating. He looked to John.

But the Captain’s face was filled with terror, genuine panic, the kind of fear people only had in their eyes when they knew they were about to die.

“Move!” He cried. “Sherlock run!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Such a suspenseful ending sorry! I'll try and update soon to save you all from the pain. Thank you so much for reading! If you would like to contact me then feel free to follow my [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/221bsherlockfandom_/) or my [Tumblr](http://but-it-was-always-supposed-to-be.tumblr.com/) I would love to hear from you :) 
> 
> Now for the rambling notes:  
> -It’s not explained in the text where John got his penknife from, but I figured because he’s a ship Captain that he would just keep one on him, even throughout a battle. I hope that’s not too unrealistic. I am trying desperately hard to be as real as possible with this, as that’s something I personally enjoy in a fic. It doesn’t bother some people but if you do notice any massive mistakes to do with the context of the time period, or survival skills on an Island, please tell me and I will see what I can do about it.  
> -I hope the back story for Sherlock is plausible, I personally think it is but my knowledge of history is not great so please tell me if you think there's anything that doesn't work in your opinion or I could do differently to be more realistic. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome, thanks!


	4. John is quite a guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The action continues exactly where it left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! God I've been working so hard on this and I really enjoyed writing it! I can't wait to see your reactions! 
> 
> WARNING: There are some mentions of blood and injuries that could be considered sort of graphic. I don't really know much is too much to give a proper warning on all this, but I definitely don't want to offend anyone. So if you know descriptions of violence, blood and injury are really going to affect you, then I suggest you read this with caution or don't read it at all.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

 

Sherlock felt as if his heart was about to drop out of his chest.

“Don’t wait for me - move - head inland!” John hissed, his body jerking into action as he scrambled to his knees and shoved roughly at Sherlock’s shoulders.

“But you-” Sherlock spluttered.

“Go! There isn’t time.” John commanded, whipping his head around to look in the direction of the sounds that were now surrounding them. There was rough shouting. Heavy footsteps. The clanking of swords and axes against belts.

Pirates. They were close. Heading in from the direction of the beach. They must’ve seen the light of the fire.

Sherlock couldn’t handle this - the intensity of the fear flooding through him - it’d shut him down. His body was frozen solid. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He just stared blankly. His wide eyes burning into John’s and brimming with fear. He felt as if the entire world was falling through his fingertips. He couldn't lose John, he couldn't be back with Moriarty, not after-

“GO!” John screamed, pushing Sherlock hard this time before darting to his feet and jolting away from him.

The trance broke as Sherlock fell backwards. He scrambled up desperately, his legs withering on the sand for a moment before the raw adrenaline kicked in and he was able to jump to his feet and break into a fragile run. He got no more than a couple of metres - clinging to palm trees, the bushes and vines scratching at his ankles – before his resolve caved and he looked back to catch sight of John.

The Captain was still by the fire, stamping on it in fact. His sturdy brown boots crashing down like bricks on the glowing embers that still remained. Confusion flickered through Sherlock's mind but it vanished as soon as John’s heel came down on the final ember and they were plunged into complete darkness.

Good. Darkness was cover.

But the light didn’t quite fade quick enough. Just before John’s foot stamped down and drained the world of vision, Sherlock got a glimpse of three flickering outlines. Burly men that were brandishing pistols and swords, the shadows projecting their figures to be enormous when cast up briefly against the trees.

They were close. They were at the camp.

“THERE! GET HIM!” A snarling voice rang out into the forest, coarse and low. Ugly. Sherlock recognised it instantly. Blackbeard.

“SHOOT EM!!” Another yelled.

The gun fired again. The sound booming through everything in its path.

Sherlock jumped and a loud gasp fell from his mouth. He clutched to the nearest tree, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay and to try and make out John in the darkness. He needed to see. To be sure that the bullet had missed. But it was too dark, he couldn’t make anything out, not even vague shapes.

“Did I get him?” The first voice hissed sourly.

“I dunno.” Another called out ferociously. “The son of a bitch has put the fire out. I can’t see anything!”

And then Sherlock heard him. Captain John Watson. His sharp voice ringing out crisp and clear in the darkness.

“No you old dog, you missed,” He said breathlessly. “But I’m not going to.”

The next thing Sherlock heard was the sound of a fist connecting with a cheek. He wasn’t sure who hit who, but then there was a loud thud, and what sounded like violent scuffling on the sand. Sherlock didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this good? Did this mean John was winning? He squinted harder to try and-

Suddenly the worst sound tore through the air and made Sherlock’s heart stop in his chest. One of the men cried out, an agonising howl of pain that seemed to last forever. It was impossible to tell if it were John, it didn’t sound like any man and Sherlock had absolutely nothing to compare it to.

He fell to his knees, his head going dizzy with panic. Was that John being beaten up? Was it actually John winning? Who had the gun? He couldn’t _see_!

He felt so pathetic crouched in the trees, but better judgement told him that he probably shouldn’t go and help. He would most likely be useless. He was injured, weak, and a feeble fighter. Plus, John had told him to run.

_What should I do? What should I do?!?!_

Sherlock tried to calm himself and think logically. Yes, logic was his strong point. He needed to find a way to aid John’s battle. He shuffled forwards and squinted again, finding thankfully that his eyes had adjusted to the light level a little more now. He was starting to be able to make out shapes… black outlines and figures in the darkness. He could see a man…he could see another man…and…there! The stark blond of John’s hair suddenly caught in the soft light of the moon as he rose up to drop another blow with his fist. He was on top! He was wrestling the biggest pirate -Blackbeard- to the ground. This was good, this was...

Sherlock’s eyes fell from the action when the looming figure of one of the other pirates stole his attention. The brutish hulk of a man was moving in on the fight. Walking slowly, his movements no doubt cautious from the lack of light. He held a pistol out in front of him with both hands, pointing it downwards in the direction of the noise, like a bloodhound that’d caught the scent of fresh prey. He cocked the gun, his aim hovering roughly over John’s head. But he was faltering, hesitating, he also couldn't see properly, and was trying to figure out if the man he was about to shoot was _definitely_ foe not friend.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted.

John was still landing blows at Blackbeard’s head, it would only be moments before he rose up again and his hair caught slightly in the light, revealing his identity.

_Oh god._

Something in Sherlock clicked, and instinct suddenly moved his body for him. He dashed forward, his hands fumbling around on the ground for something solid. By chance, his fingers curled around a large, heavy wooden branch and without thinking he lifted it up off the ground.

It was heavy, but he didn’t notice. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He charged forward in what he hoped was the direction of the pirate. He held the branch up high in front of him, trying to remain silent so his attack was a surprise. He reached the burley outline of the gunman. _Saw_ the man's hands move in the darkness at the last second when he heard Sherlock coming. But Sherlock didn’t stop. He took a wide stance with his legs, raised the branch up high behind him and swung it round. His limbs trembling as he brought it down hard and heavy against the man’s neck.

The man fired the gun on impact, the thunderous boom of the gunshot tearing through the air just as the branch sent the shooter crashing down to the ground.

Sherlock’s breath caught. It suddenly all went silent as the sound disappeared and John froze mid punch.

The gun had been aiming right at Sherlock. It had-

_Oh._

The younger man fell to his knees.

The shock of it was what got him the most. He wasn’t expecting the pirate to react that quickly. He wasn’t expecting it to feel like it did.

He wasn’t expecting to get shot.

John rolled off Blackbeard instantly. He stood up quickly, still brandishing his fist in the air in case of any other attackers. He kicked Blackbeard in the head once more for good measure before spinning around in the darkness quickly. Sherlock could hear his heavy breathing.

“What happened?!” He called out breathlessly. “Who got shot?!”

Sherlock’s words came out as a sob. “I...me...” He crumpled backwards onto the sand, clutching his lower side. It felt bad, but it was not what he was expecting, the feeling was sort of surreal and numb. It wasn't the intense pain he was predicting.

“What?!” John gasped. He felt his way to Sherlock’s side in the darkness. “Sherlock what the?! Why are you here?! I told you to run...I told you to…” He trailed off as he ran his hands up Sherlock’s body, one hand cupping the back of the younger man’s head while the other came away wet with blood from Sherlock’s side.

“Oh my god.” John pulled his hand away and stared at his blood covered palm. Watching speechlessly as the red liquid began to dribble down his wrist, glistening in the modest light from the moon.

“He was going to shoot you.” Sherlock choked out. His eyes darting over John’s face as he tried to read his expression in the darkness. “I had to stop him John, I had to- ah!” He yelped in pain as John hurriedly pushed the bottom of his shirt up, revealing a dark tender wound to the left side of Sherlock's torso.

“Jesus Christ” John hissed, sucking in a large amount of air through his teeth. He pulled his shirt off and balled it up best he could, pushing it at Sherlock’s side; attempting to put pressure on the wound and trying to stop the bleeding.

Without the support of John's hand, Sherlock dropped his head back against the sand. He swallowed as his breathing got heavier and his hands started to tremble at his sides. “I’m sorry…” He whimpered, tears starting to leak from the corners of his eyes. “God I’m so sorry.”

“No Sherlock shh,” John said tightly. Moving one hand up from Sherlock’s side and pushing a damp finger against Sherlock’s trembling lips. “Don’t talk like that. It’s going to be fine. It’s not your fault and I’m going to-”

His voice broke and he didn’t finish the sentence.

“John…” Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes briefly.

“I don’t understand!” John continued suddenly. “There was only _one_ gunman, and I disarmed him! How did he - wait, put your hands there and hold firmly.” He guided Sherlock’s hands to the cloth of his balled up shirt and demonstrated the amount of pressure that was needed before clambering to his knees. He felt his way to the body of the unconscious pirate Sherlock had knocked out and reached for his palm, grabbing the gun that was still in his fingertips. Without a moment’s hesitation he held it up in the sparse light and gasped as a familiar silver tinted back at him. 

“Sherlock!” He exclaimed, rushing back to the younger man’s side. “It’s your half broken pistol! I knew it was by the fire somewhere but he must have got to it before I could.”

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed, not really taking in what John was saying.

“This is good.” John continued frantically. “It’s damaged and weak remember. With luck the bullet could have shattered or something, or, I don’t know - I mean it didn’t kill Moran did it, and I definitely hit him.”

“Ok.” Sherlock whispered. "I guess it doesn't feel right. It’s weird. The pain I mean, it’s almost shallow.”

“Ok." John tried to calm himself for Sherlock's sake. "That's good, keep describing to me what you feel. Just keep talking ok? I’m right here. I’ll hold the cloth now.” He gently removed Sherlock’s trembling hands and took over with his own slightly steadier ones. “Right Sherlock, listen carefully. I’m going to roll you onto your side, which will help slow the bleeding, and then I’m going to try and inspect the wound ok? I need to check it out properly.”

Sherlock nodded weakly.

“It’s too dark, I can’t see you well enough are you nodding?”

“Yes.” Sherlock croaked. “Yes sorry I was.”

“No need to apologise, just talk to me.” John said softly, rolling Sherlock over onto his right side so that the wound was facing upwards.

“What do I say?” Sherlock stammered, his voice already starting to crack.

“Er...” John said the first thing that came to mind. “Tell me about England, you lived in the country, didn’t you? Tell me about what the countryside looks like in the summer, when all the flowers are out in the fields. I’ve never been out in the countryside Sherlock, I need you to describe it to me.” 

“Ok…”

Sherlock started rambling about what the woods looked like in the spring when all the Bluebells came out, and how he’d take long walks with his dog Redbeard when his father made staying in the house unbearable.

John murmured along eagerly, not really listening. He just needed Sherlock to talk so that he could measure his consciousness, track his pain reflexes and distract him from the shock of what was happening.

John finished rolling Sherlock into a position that was both comfortable and practical. He lifted the makeshift bandage from the younger man's side carefully.

Sherlock flinched.

“It's ok,” John said softly. “Now, because it's dark and I can hardly see anything I'm going to have use my hands to inspect this ok? It might hurt a little but I want you to be focusing on talking to me - nothing else.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly and continued murmuring something about his early experiments. He stayed very still, eyes closed, and let the talking level out his breathing.

John prompted him when necessary, but set to work with his hands. He pressed very gently with his fingers, concentrating hard on blindly trying to diagnose the damage.

“Sherlock.” He murmured after a moment. “I've got good news, really good news.”

“What!? Sherlock gasped. “What do you mean?” Is it fatal? It doesn't feel-”

“It's not fatal.” John interrupted firmly. “In fact, it's nothing more than a severe surface wound. The bullet only skimmed your side, missing all your major organs, so the biggest threat to you right now is blood loss, but I know how to handle that.” He said quickly, his voice becoming lighter and lighter by the second. “It appears the bullet _did_ shatter when it left the barrel of the pistol, so the impact on you was lessened greatly. I’ve removed all the shrapnel I could find, but there will still be small bits.”

Sherlock listened intently and almost cried with relief when John finished talking. He let a long breath that he didn't know he’d been holding and choked out a laugh. “I can't believe it!” He whispered.

“Neither can I.” John chuckled softly. “ _God_ you are very lucky man Sherlock. Not that many people come that close to death and live to tell to the tale.”

“I know.” Sherlock breathed quietly, unsure of what exactly to say next.

John smiled softly in the darkness. He leant down slowly and reached out to Sherlock’s face, touching the younger man’s cheek tenderly with his hand. He paused momentarily, holding Sherlock’s wide-eyed gaze in the darkness, before moving his touch up to brush a few tattered black curls from Sherlock’s forehead with his fingertips. “Do you want to hear what I think we should do now?” He breathed softly.

Sherlock’s breath hitched at the feel of John's fingertips on his skin. His heart started beating a little bit faster. He wanted to sound bold but his voice came out as no more than a whisper.

“What?” 

“I think that...I should bandage your side up as best I can with the remains of my shirt. Then we loot these horrible pirates, make sure they're definitely all dead and take every last useful item on them. Then we leave here and head Inland to the stream so I can clean and wash all the bandages with fresh water. And _then_ in the morning, I will clean and bandage that wound properly.” John took a breath. “How does that sound?”

Sherlock didn't know what to say, it all sounded perfect. Anything that wasn't dying and included having John at his side sounded absolutely bloody perfect. 

“That sounds brilliant,” He whispered. “The best plan I've ever heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okaaaaaaaaaay, I know I am Satan I shot Sherlock;) But in my defence this chapter ending was kinda happy right? Anyway, this story definitely doesn't end here as I have so much plot in mind so make sure you hang around for more. I'll try get writing the next chapter as soon as I can!  
> Also, "old dog" was a very severe swear word in those days, along with "son of a bitch".   
> Please don't feel afraid to comment your feedback! Thanks x


	5. It's all fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John carries a wounded Sherlock deeper into the forest with the hope of finding the stream... but Sherlock turns out to be a little bolder than he expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I'll be honest, I found this chapter a real challenge to write which is why it took so long, sorry! But I figured I better just upload it now before I go completely crazy. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

John weaved his way through the trees carefully, trying to tread lightly as he stepped over fallen logs and pushed past bristly bushes. He’d never had a jumpy nature before, but now, with the almost complete darkness still surrounding them, he found himself flinching violently as the occasional twig or stick suddenly cracked underneath his feet and momentarily shattered the fragile silence.

As he walked, vines caught at his arms and bushes scratched his ankles. The vegetation was thicker now, the forest seeming to flourish and advance a little more with every step he took. Soon, he was tackling hefty foliage, the many species of trees arising up further and further from the ground until it was no longer thin palm trees that dwindled above him, but wide, lumbering trees. They loomed over his head like tower blocks. The largest trunks standing out clearly, even in the dark. John eyed them warily and tried not to feel anxious. He’d never liked cramped places, and right now it felt as if the trees were crowding in on him, their branches sticking out and forming shadows that resembled odd-shaped buildings. Branches intertwining and the darkness enhancing their size. The whole setting sent an odd sort of chill up John’s spine.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice was meek and timid, nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“Yes?” John replied steadily, trying to catch his breath.

“You can put me down if you’re tired.”

John exhaled loudly, looking down at the younger man that was so delicately cradled in his aching arms. The moon had now ventured out from behind the clouds, and although the canopy of trees above him was heavy, some light was still managing to penetrate through; meaning John could just about make out the glint of Sherlock’s wide eyes in the half light. He appeared almost ghost like, a sheen of cold sweat lying over his forehead that contrasted the unusual dark of his eyes. His lips were colourless, and with his hair falling back out of his face, John could see that his cheeks were also dangerously pale, only illuminated even more so by the soft glow of the moonlight.

“Err…” John faltered.

He slowed his walking to a halt. Taking a few heavy breaths before mustering the strength to hitch Sherlock up a little higher in his arms. It was true, he was exhausted. They had been walking for what he predicted to be nearly twenty minutes now, and his limbs were _really_ starting to feel the strain. But on top of that he felt...off balance. He was carrying the younger man like he had the time before, but somehow... _this_ felt a little more intimate. In the dark, supported by John’s arms, Sherlock was squashed into the top of the older man’s bare chest, his head lying against the exposed skin. He had one arm curled around the Captain’s waist, and the other draped across his front messily, his fingertips curling as they clutched at the uncovered round of John’s shoulder.

It was weird. The more they had walked, the more John began to notice that Sherlock had leant into him. Pressing his cheek against John’s skin. His head now so close to John’s neck that he could actually feel the younger man’s shallow breath fluttering over his skin every couple of seconds. His thoughts blurred momentarily. Just _that_ was making him slightly dizzy, which wasn’t entirely appropriate.

“Actually, is it ok if I do...just for a second.”

“Of course.” Sherlock replied quickly, lifting his head from the crook of John’s shoulder and unfolding his legs from the older man’s arms as he was lowered to the ground.

John placed him down carefully, swiftly removing the items they’d looted from the pirates from Sherlock’s lap. He dropped them in a pile and collapsed almost immediately after, plonking himself down on the ground next to Sherlock and leaning back on his elbows. He took a few more heavy breaths, running a hand through his blond hair.

“Are you ok?” Sherlock asked quietly, nothing more than a voice in the darkness.

“Yes. I’m just tired, thirsty and hungry.” John murmured, before beginning to chuckle softly. “But I can’t complain can I? It’s me who should be asking _you_ that question.”

“Oh.” Sherlock laughed. “Well...you fought the pirates too, which must have hurt, and you’ve carried me all this way-”

“I suppose,” John interrupted gingerly. “But...you got shot Sherlock, there’s a difference. My pain can’t really be compared to yours.” He sighed quietly. “God look at us...what a mess...soon as we get to the stream I’ll sort you out Sherlock. I promise, and I’ll find us some food as well, don’t worry.”

“It’s ok…” Sherlock whispered. “I trust you.”

 

* * *

 

John took a few more minutes to gather his strength, before he checked Sherlock’s bandages, inspected his condition, and lifted him off the ground. Slotting his arms underneath Sherlock’s body and heading off in what he hoped was the direction of the stream.

He walked steadily, trying but failing to keep his mind blank. Sherlock had curled back into his shoulder, skin against skin, and it was starting to become a little bit of a distraction. John scorned himself internally. Trying to convince his mind that the fact that he was topless meant nothing. That it made absolutely _no difference_ whatsoever. But still, there was no denying that there was something _there._

He ducked under another tree and tried to shake the unsettling thoughts away, after all, there was nothing to be done about it right now. He’d had no choice in the matter of taking his shirt off when Sherlock was shot, for he _had_ to stop the bleeding. There’d been nothing else to make bandages with, and besides the fabric was completely ripped up now, the thin strips of cloth tied securely around Sherlock’s waist. For the time being, it looked like he would just have to remain temporarily shirtless.

They walked for a little time longer, and after a while all the jungle started to look the same. The trees he ducked under seemed monotonous, and the plants he brushed passed started to become worryingly familiar. It was impossible to tell if he was even heading in the right direction in the dark and as the minutes ticked on, John became increasingly more worried he was simply walking in circles.

But then, as he held Sherlock close and scraped his way through yet another tight gap in the trees, he felt it. The splash of sprightly cool water running over his feet, flowing merrily and leaking into his boots.

_At last._

They had reached the stream, freshwater, and hopefully safety.

“Sherlock.” John murmured, shaking his arms ever so lightly to stir the younger man from where he’d apparently fallen asleep. “Sherlock we’re here. I’m going to put you down now.” He crossed the small stream quickly and began to lower Sherlock down onto a nice patch of clear sandy ground next to the water.

Sherlock grunted, making a sort of strangled noise as he came to terms with his consciousness.

“...What…?” He slurred.

“We’re here,” John said softly, leaning in and whispering the words gently into Sherlock’s ear so as not to alarm him.

He finished placing Sherlock on the ground and immediately removed the pile of things that had been stacked on his lap. He pushed them to the floor, fumbling through the items frantically, suddenly craving the cool sense of metal against his fingertips.

“We’re here?!” Sherlock croaked. Still lying on his back, he threw his arm out quickly and gasped as he felt the shock of algid water running through his slender fingers. “Oh, I’m so thirsty!” He rolled onto good side immediately, pushing up weakly with his arms and quite literally trying to dunk his head in the water in an attempt to quench his thirst. But at that moment John finally found what he was looking for. His hands clasped around the metal handle of the tankard and he reached out and pulled on Sherlock’s shoulder, stopping him before he had a chance to submerge himself.

“Here Sherlock, I’ve got the tankard remember, sit back and I’ll-”

Sherlock slumped back, and John dunked the cup in the water. Wasting no time as he filled it up and brought it to Sherlock’s lips quickly. While supporting the younger man’s shoulders with his other hand, he helped Sherlock drink several long cups full. Filling another even when Sherlock insisted it was John’s turn.

Sherlock sat back and drank gratefully, closing his eyes as the cool water slipped over his lips. He leant back into John's touch, dropping his head onto the older man’s shoulder as soon as he’d finished the fourth cupful.

“Thanks.” He said a little breathlessly, pressing the cup back into John’s palm.

John immersed it in the water again, waiting until it was full before bringing it up and nudging it gently against Sherlock’s lips in the darkness, but Sherlock shook his head quickly. “I’m finished, honestly, you need to have some.”

“Sure?” John questioned.

Sherlock nodded.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand gently in the darkness to give an unspoken thanks, before moving away from the younger man’s side and dunking the cup in the water to take several long drinks himself.

He finished drinking, gathered their things into a slightly neater pile to make sure they didn’t get wet, and then moved away little more. Placing himself a respectable distance away from Sherlock’s side. They sat in silence for a while, with nothing but the sounds of the forest surrounding them. When suddenly Sherlock did it again, without warning he shuffled a little closer until their thighs were touching.

There was an anxious pause, both men holding their breath, before Sherlock moved in tentatively, resting his head lightly on John's shoulder.

John’s world froze. But before he even had time to _think._ Sherlock had also slowly wrapped an arm around the back of his shoulders, his hand coming to rest lightly on the fabric of his upper trousers.

_Oh._

It hit him then, and John had to stop the small gasp that almost escaped from his mouth. His heart started to beat a little harder in his chest. He wasn’t expecting the younger man to be so... _bold?_ Yet that's what this was wasn’t it? There was no reason for Sherlock's actions this time. He wasn't being carried and he didn't need to lean on John to support himself...the last few minutes had just proven that he could sit up perfectly fine on his own...

“Sherlock…” John warned nervously.

Sherlock tensed and his breath caught. He clasped at John’s side a little tighter, as if the entire world was suddenly about to be taken away from him. “What?” He breathed. “Problem?”

John was about to say _yes_ , that most people _would_ consider two men holding each other in the dark a problem. But the words got stuck in his throat. He suddenly felt like there was so much that needed to be said, but he had no idea how to say it. His feelings were blurring, and in that moment he couldn’t possibly untangle his thoughts into any kind of sentence, or even proper words.

And _besides_ , it was cold, they were just sharing body heat weren't they? Which was a perfectly logical thing to do in their situation - without the materials or pure strength to build a fire. _Yes_ , _that worked._ They were just sharing body heat. Surviving. Simply doing what they had to do. That was all.

“Err...” John stammered as he suddenly realised he had not yet answered Sherlock’s question. “Um...no I guess it’s-”

But deep down, the Captain knew the only reason he was letting Sherlock wrap his arms around him right now was because he _liked_ it.

_He liked it at lot._

Ever since he’d first laid eyes Sherlock he’d felt a sort of unexplainable pull towards him. An uncontrollable force that’d wrapped its hands around John’s heart was outright refusing to let go.

And well, maybe just for tonight - with nothing but the trees watching them - he could let it win. After all, who was he to resist a feeling like that?

“It’s…” Without thinking he tilted his head, dropping it down so that he could feel the soft black curls of the younger man’s hair pressing lightly against his cheek and temple. He wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him in closer, instinctively using his weight to guide them both softly down to the ground. “It’s fine…” He finally finished, enclosing Sherlock’s fragile body in his arms and holding him in close. He put his mouth against Sherlock’s ear.

“It’s all fine.” He whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really hoping you didn't find this chapter too boring, because there are lots more exciting things coming up don't worry. The plot is all going to start heating up very soon!
> 
> Please don't feel afraid to leave your feedback in the comments (it always makes my day!) X


	6. The Mark of a True Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock and John awake the next morning, things seem to be a lot better... but sadly it doesn't last long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to update this time! Sadly with A levels and continuous theatre projects I've been rather busy. So I think future updates will probably be about every two weeks...sorry!
> 
> Personally, I really dislike this chapter. I was tempted to scrap it several times but then I'd be even more behind time so, here it is. I really hope you like it anyhow. 
> 
> WARNING: This has dark themes and heavy physical/emotional abuse is very much implied. If you know that might upset you then please read this chapter with caution or don't read it at all. 
> 
> But anyway, enjoy!

When Sherlock awoke, it was slowly, tenderly. The mellow sounds of the stream that trickled beside him and the cheerful chirping of the birds above slowly stirring his senses and bringing his mind softly to life.

He laid still for a second, just listening to the sounds of the living world that surrounded him, and _breathed._

He’d never been so grateful to be alive.

He blinked hazily, his eyelids fluttering as he resisted the heavy pull of sleep and tried to see the world in focus. Lying on his back, the sight he was presented with was bright and vivid, so much so that he had to squint immediately, dragging a lazy hand across his face and shielding his eyes.

He sighed gently, taking a moment to admire the leafy green trees and clear blue sky that sat peacefully above him. With all the action last night, the darkness had felt like an eternity; and now he’d almost forgotten what a soft breeze felt like when it ran through his hair, _missed_ the warm glow the sun left on his skin.

After stretching, he sat up carefully, instantly aware of the raw ache that throbbed at the side of his torso. But the pain got ignored, _easily_ , as he turned his cheek to the left and his eyes fell on the man who made the last 6 months of living hell all worth it. In a way, Sherlock actually felt glad Moriarty had captured him that night, because otherwise he wouldn’t be sat here right now. He would never have met _this_ man in front of him.

_John Watson._

Sherlock whispered the name to himself silently, enjoying the feel of it on lips. There had never been anyone else who caused butterflies to flutter lightly in his stomach. Not like this. There’d been no one who’d actually understood him. John was the first. Different to anyone else he’d ever met. He was kind, gentle. He spoke softly and didn’t bark orders. He had cupped Sherlock’s cheek when the life was draining out of him and promised that everything was going to be okay. Sherlock would never forget the way John looked at him. Eyes deep and dark, holding the wisdom of a thousand stories. A thousand people who’d also crossed paths with him, people who had laughed and died at his side. But _still_ , John had looked at Sherlock _like that._ Like he was something special.

A story worth telling.

Sherlock smiled warmly, letting his eyes drift over John’s sleeping form. The Captain lay a couple of feet away, curled over on his side, his face squashed into the crook of his elbow. It was instantly obvious that he was still fast asleep. For the straw coloured blond hair that normally shaded his eyes was now ruffled across his forehead messily, and the lips that normally looked rough and manly were slightly parted. A soft, pale pink. Giving way to the gentle shallowness of his breathing.

Sherlock’s smile turned to a grin, because, not only did his companion look charmingly vulnerable right now (for the first time since they’d met). He also looked happy and peaceful, the corner of his mouth tucked up in the slightest smile.

And Sherlock knew why.

Although they were now lying apart, (within arms distance no less but not touching) that was certainly _not_ how they’d fallen asleep. And Sherlock couldn’t really believe it - couldn’t stop thinking about it. The feel of John’s arm’s cloaked around him, the heat of his body making him feel safer than he’d ever felt. His eyes fluttered shut.

_The whole thing was glorious._

“Good morning.” A lazy voice yawned. “Watching me sleep are we?”

Sherlock nearly _died_ then, feeling a scarlet flush creep up onto his cheeks and the waves of embarrassment begin to roll in his stomach. He snapped his eyes open quickly, trying desperately not to stutter. “No! Of course not I’ve only just-”

John just grinned slowly, the warmth seeming to spread out from his lips until Sherlock could almost feel it hitting his body, brushing the embarrassment aside and calming his nerves.

“I was joking.” The older man chuckled softly, rolling over and stretching out onto his back.

“Oh.” Sherlock breathed quietly. He leant back down again and stared up at the treetops, narrowing his eyes and trying to find something to say that would change the subject. He smiled up at the sky, suddenly realising that the inspiration was right in front of him. “What a wonderful day.” He breathed.

“Yes.” John stated evenly as he sat up, all smiles and easy looks. “It is, isn’t it? Today I’m gonna find us some food, because I don't know about you but I’m _starving_ and there must be something we can eat. And then I will clean that wound and _then-_ ”

His voice grounded to a halt. A very shocked, very sudden, _halt_.

Sherlock sat up quickly, instantly sensing the _danger_ in John's voice. “What? Wh-”

His eyes fell on John's frozen face, except the older man wasn't looking at Sherlock, his glare was transfixed on something else. Something _much_ worse. Sherlock's wrist.

_Oh god._

Sherlock felt the previously happy atmosphere crash and burn around him. He wanted the ground to swallow him up. Like an _idiot_ he’d forgotten all about it. He’d rolled his shirt sleeves up in the night and _stupidly_ failed to pull them back down. _Oh my-_

“Sherlock...is that…”

Sherlock flushed angrily. Rushing to sit up properly and pull his sleeves back down around his wrists. But he was too slow, and just as he fumbled frantically with the fabric John reached out and grabbed his arm viciously. Yanking it towards him.

“No John, please…” Sherlock whimpered, his eyes already beginning to fill with tears.

Silent, the older man kept his grip. Staring solidly at the damaged skin just above Sherlock’s wrist bone. His expression was unreadable. The blankness smothering his face like heavy mist as his eyes flickered over the beginnings of what Sherlock had tried so _desperately_ to hide.

The wound was at least a few weeks old - John guessed. Crinkled and sore. The skin had risen slightly in the center, now an ugly pale white from where it’d once been swollen and inflamed.

_What an earth-_

He needed to see the rest of it. He couldn’t _believe_ that someone would-

 _"_ John…” Sherlock pleaded. “I don't want you to see this please...leave it...don't-”

Blinded by the anger that was suddenly coursing through his veins John ignored the younger man’s protests and pushed the shirt sleeve a little further up Sherlock’s arm.

_Oh my god._

Horror flooded through every fibre of John’s being. It was a burn. The skin on Sherlock’s forearm had been branded with hot metal, leaving a scar that formed a very _distinctive_ shape.

The letter P

The mark of a true pirate.

John’s fingers tightened around Sherlock's wrist. Hard. So hard in fact his nails were probably digging into Sherlock’s skin but he wasn't-

“This was _him_ wasn’t it? Moriarty?” He hissed, his voice trembling with rage.

Sherlock nodded weakly in defeat, biting his lip to keep back from sobbing. He kept his eyes fixed on John’s face. Studying his reaction and just _waiting_ for the shock and then disappointment that would surely flicker through his eyes.

Chest heaving, and still keeping his grip with his other hand, John traced a fingertip along the damaged skin slowly. Holding his breath as the pad of his finger came into contact with the uneven surface.

Sherlock just watched speechlessly. Staring numbly at John's fingers as they trailed along his skin, silently judging every bump and ridge. He was probably trying to figure out exactly what happened. No doubt there’d be questions, so _many_ questions _._

Sherlock felt completely helpless.

Because John still hadn’t said anything. Nothing at all, and that was actually _worse_. It was like watching the entire world crumble apart in front of him, and there was _nothing_ he could do about it.

Another tear slipped down his cheek and dripped onto his trousers. He couldn’t breathe - couldn’t _think_. Only one thing was obvious.

There was no way John would stay with him after this. Not after knowing the truth.

They both understood what this meant.

“Does this hurt? John asked thickly, suddenly breaking the silence as he pressed his fingers a little harder against Sherlock’s skin.

“No.” Sherlock managed to stammer. Even though it wasn't quite the truth. The pain had never really faded.

“What about this?” John had reached the top of the scar now, his fingers sliding underneath the loose fabric of Sherlock’s sleeve.

Sherlock shook his head slowly, it was getting worse. He felt dizzy. He couldn’t stand it. Just waiting for John to say the words, collect his things, and then walk away. He’d be nice about it probably, soft and gentle like always. But there would be no room for misunderstanding.

He was leaving.

“May I?”

John had asked another question, but Sherlock didn’t really hear it. Everything sounded like he was underwater. Unclear and fuzzy. John’s words just sounded like bubbles. Full of air and empty promises. The world started getting swallowed by the water, turning to nothing more than blurry vibrations of sound. It was too loud but too quiet all at once. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel, he was suffocating…sinking…

 

_...drowning…_

 

... _drowning…_

 

_...drowning…_

 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock resurfaced. Far too quickly. His lungs hurt, everything seemed too bright.

“Sherlock?” John asked again. “Did you hear what I said?”

Things were still spinning. Like a merry go round out of control.

John shook him. “Sherlock...you’re scaring me now…answer me...”

He must have looked fine, that’s what it was. Perhaps the world was only collapsing on the inside. It must be only him who could feel the current dragging him under. Otherwise John would be comforting him, wouldn’t he? He’d be holding him close and stroking his hair and whispering things like _“Come on Sherlock, stay with me...don’t pass out...don’t fall under…”_

But he wasn’t saying those things. He wasn’t pulling Sherlock out of the water. He was just looking at him. Dark eyes, blank and confused. Frightened. Like he could see nothing going wrong at all.

So none of this was showing on his face, Sherlock realised. Either that or John didn’t care. Maybe this was the beginning of the end, now that he knew the truth.

“What…” Sherlock managed to slur as he finally broke out of his trance. “...what did you say?”

A hint of relief flashed through John’s eyes. He blinked, his face going soft as he loosened his grip on Sherlock’s arm. “I asked if I could look at the rest of your arm...please…” He suddenly let go of Sherlock’s completely, coughing nervously as it dawned on him that the section of wrist he’d been holding was now red and sore. “Oh…” He stared down at his hands as if he didn’t recognise them. “Oh god! Sorry, I was gripping you so hard...I’m sorry I didn’t even realise…” He gasped, stumbling over his words. “Sorry...I’m just so angry Sherlock, that someone did this to you. Can I see the rest of your arm?”

It took a while for Sherlock to process the words, but as soon as he did he just shrugged his shoulders. Holding his arm out to John carefully. Because as humiliating as it was, there was no point in hiding anything else now, it was too late. John had already seen what counted the most. He no longer had _anything_ left to lose.

As Sherlock felt John slowly start to pull his sleeve up the rest of the way, the touch making his skin tingle, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was somewhere else. He imagined a world where none of this had ever happened. A time where he’d never crept onto Moriarty’s pirate ship, never been rescued, never even heard of a man called John Watson. The world he envisioned was a dismal one, a very dull, very lonely life for any man to lead, but still, right then Sherlock wished he had taken it. At least never knowing John would hurt less than this.

The shirt Sherlock was wearing was far too big for him. Loose and baggy, it hung from Sherlock’s slim body rather than fitting against it. So it was no struggle at all for John to roll the sleeve up a little further, all the way to Sherlock’s shoulder. In fact it only took a matter of seconds.

Maybe that’s why it hit him so hard.

Maybe that’s why the sight alone felt like a smack in the face.

Or, maybe, it’s just that the truth hurts.

John’s jaw fell. He gasped unexpectedly, eyes darted wildly as they fell on the whole of the younger man’s arm.

Only now, was the full extent of Sherlock’s abuse revealed.

“Fuck.”

Above the pale red of the pirate mark, a dark blue tattoo was heavily inked into Sherlock's ghostly pale skin. The horror of its presence only matched by the various other cuts, scars, and bruises that were scattered across his arm in uneven patterns. It was mortifying. John didn’t know what to look at first. As well as the cuts, several faded red lines layered Sherlock’s skin where he’d pulled at bindings and struggled against being tied down, and thin marks went in the other direction - evidence of lashings. There was probably more on his back.

“Oh my god.” John hissed in a murderously low voice.

Sherlock said nothing. Eyes closed. The tears still rolling down his cheeks.

With trembling hands, John decided to focus on the tattoo first, leaning in and studying it more closely. It was dark, about the size of a pocket watch and admittedly a skilful illustration. It depicted a Magpie, with its black and white wings spread wide, swooping up towards the sky. Scarily, the artist had managed to show the light that reflected in the animal's snarling sharp beak and gleaming white eyes, shaping the image so it appeared three-dimensional. Caged by three triangular straight edges, the bird was distinctively menacing. Evil.

It was a symbol.

But he’d missed something, underneath, aligned perfectly with the base of the triangle, was some emboldened writing…or...no...letters…?

John squinted harder. The text was small and his eyes were already blurring with tears. It took him a while to focus...it was...initials….it was….

**JM**

_James Moriarty_.

And then it hit, the realisation of what this was. It was _his_ mark. The Magpie, that’s Sherlock had called him wasn’t it? That was his name, his symbol, and now it was permanent. Inked into Sherlock's skin forever. A mark of ownership.

The hairs stood up on the back of John's neck. He suddenly felt _very,_ very sick.

“...Oh my god...Sherlock…”

Instinctively John dropped Sherlock's wrist and suddenly pulled him in close, closing his eyes to keep back tears, and wrapping his arms around the younger man’s shaking body, shifting so that Sherlock’s head was clutched against his chest.

Sherlock suddenly stopped trembling and froze. Completely still. He couldn’t _understand_ what was happening. Was John actually hugging him? Not pushing him away? It didn’t make sense. Surely he must be dreaming.

John was breathing heavily, fighting to control his emotions and holding Sherlock so tight that he could feel every tremble, every wince. He could feel it all now, all the pain that Sherlock had undergone in the last six months under the hand of this nutcase pirate Moriarty. God knows what else he did, it pained John to even imagine it. He clutched at Sherlock a little tighter.

“It’s alright now…it’s ok…” He whispered. Hesitating momentarily before reaching up to stroke the soft curls of Sherlock’s hair. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Sherlock couldn’t really speak. He was still drifting. Everything felt like a surreal blur of colour. Numb, like when he’d first woken up on the beach. John’s words were still washing over him. But he felt as if he was behind glass, he had to concentrate hard just to stay focused on what was happening.  

But when he did manage decipher sounds again, John's voice had gone dark. He was hissing and growling, fists clenched behind Sherlock’s back. Sherlock managed to catch the end of his sentence.

“If I ever meet this Moriarty scum I’m gonna snap his _fucking_ neck. He’s never going to lay a single finger on you ever again, ok? I swear it.”

Sherlock remained silent. Because, as much as he wanted them to, John’s words didn’t bring hope. They didn’t bring comfort. Because John didn’t understand. Moriarty was unlike anyone else. He was unbeatable.

Insane.

“Did you hear me, Sherlock?” John continued in a slightly softer tone. “It’s all over now ok? You’re safe...and this…” He removed his hand from Sherlock’s hair and touched the scarring of the pirate mark. “I-it doesn't matter...it doesn’t matter at all...we-we’ll get round it somehow…”

And it was only then, at that the profundity of that statement, did Sherlock manage to break his silence. “W-what? But John, don’t you _understand_ what the mark means? It-”

“I know.” John interrupted. “It means that if we ever return to England it will be tricky...but we can cover it, we can-”

“Tricky?!” Sherlock burst out, lifting his head from John’s chest and staring at him through watering eyes. “It will be impossible, John. They won’t believe me when I say that I’m not a real pirate, they’ll see the mark and they won’t hear any of it. I’ll be done for treason, I’ll be hanged.”

“But Sherlock, I’m a Navy Captain...I can change their opinion I can-”

“No!” Sherlock cried. “You know they won’t believe you, the law is clear. There are no exceptions for anyone with the mark. Only true pirates get branded. They know that and they won’t take the risk. My story, it’s too elaborate too...” His voice broke. “They won’t believe me. So there’s no point you staying here now and protecting me. I’m a dead man. No decent society will ever accept me again, and I’ll die anywhere else. Moriarty knew that. It’s why he marked me. I’m his or no one’s.”

John pulled back. He blinked, twice.

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock mumbled. “I should have told you about the mark, I should have told you at the start when we first met but, I was dying and selfish and I wanted to live. I wanted to be with you. I’ve never met anyone like you before…and I-” He dropped his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry.” He sobbed.

“Sherlock.” John managed to force some words out. “Look at me.”

Sherlock dropped his hand and looked up from behind several strands of tangled black hair. He looked a complete state, puffy red eyes and flushed cheeks that were damp with tears.

And that was it, John’s heart started to melt. He’d never seen a more sorrowful sight in his life.

“Listen” He whispered tenderly. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. Nothing, ok?”

Sherlock just shook his head slowly. “But you don't understand John, Moriarty will still be alive, and he’ll be looking for me. I’m putting you in danger right now just by being here.”

He took a breath. It _hurt_ to force the next few words out of his mouth.

“You’ll stand a much better chance without me by your side. You should leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments! And thanks also to all the lovely people on Instagram who say such kind words and put up with my constant rambling - your feedback helps a lot. 
> 
> Also, I got a drawing tablet recently and edited together what I envision Sherlock's tattoo to look like. I didn't draw the bird, but I hope it makes up for this chapter a little bit.  
>  


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